Atop the Vhenadahl
by camorgan
Summary: She is Adaia's protege first and daughter second. Alienage elf and sneak thief Kallian Tabris barely survives the traumas following her wedding day, and is conscripted into the Wardens. She doesn't trust humans, but it's not their world she wants to save. Rated for violence and adult content. Eventual angsty F!Tabris/Leliana.
1. The Prisoner

**AN: **This is my take on the City Elf Origin, with a few adjustments, particularly to pacing/chronology: for instance, a lot of events in DAO seemed to be rushed for video game reasons (i.e. Duncan always being at the right place at the right time for all the right reasons) and I wanted to stretch some parts out a bit. Will deviate slightly from the events of Origins but stick to the basics of the plot (the gist of main quests + locations). Dialogue won't be word for word because I don't have the best memory. Other origins will be mentioned. Rated M for violence and hopefully smut? Eventual F!Tabris/Leliana.

This is my first fanfiction, I hope it's a good read :) Would love reviews.

**TW** for implied sexual assault in this chapter.

* * *

Chapter One:** The Prisoner**

* * *

In some ways, it was when Kallian was left alone, in the dark of her cell, that she suffered the most.

When she was being tortured, she could focus on the pain. The things that had been done to her—and would continue to be done to her, until she died—were terrible, and there was nothing she could do to change that. Not even in the tattered refuge of what was left of her own mind.

But what torture was, in principle, was an attack. And if you couldn't dodge or block an attack, you made sure it landed where you could handle the hit.

(Adaia's lessons stuck with her, even now.)

She could focus on the pain, and use it to drown out other things. The fear of losing a tooth, a finger, or the use of a limb. The inevitability of dying. The humiliation of the torturer's tongue buying down on her pointed ears, breathing heavily, panting down her neck—waiting for a reaction from her to decide what to do next, what would hurt her the most. The weight of him atop her.

She could focus on the pain, and not her memories.

x

Six summers back, Adaia—her mother—had died in her arms. She had muttered something with her last breath, but Kallian hadn't heard. She'd been too busy trying to scream life back into the cold corpse that melted red into her skin.

Adaia had always seemed invincible to the young alienage elf girl that had both loved and hated the impossible woman. The impossible woman that had not once let her daughter call her anything but her name. The impossible woman that taught her daughter how to sharpen a knife, stay in shadows, climb rooftops in the cover of the night, and fight men larger and stronger and better armed than her. The impossible woman that had forbid her from leaving the house or shutting her eyes without a makeshift shank or illegal weapon hidden on her person. The impossible woman that had gored out the eyes of the human that had tried to take her when she was ten, then turned the day into a lesson of how to dispose of human bodies so that the guards didn't come with their swords and shields and armour, kicking down every door in the alienage.

Kallian had loved her, and grasped what was left of her so tight that her cousins, Soris and Shianni, had to drag her away while endring her frantic blows. She'd hated her, and hated that she'd died, that her body killed the impossible woman that had always shone so strongly in her heart and her mind.

Kallian later learned that Adaia had stumbled back with her fatal wounds only after felling the humans that were the rags of the old mercenary company she had run with in Highever. Ghosts of Adaia's from before she had come to Denerim to marry Cyrion. But that Kallian could likely have done nothing meant little to her. She had held Adaia as the last wisps of arms fled from her body. In her mind, that had felt just like letting her die.

x

Four summers back, Neria, the red-haired recluse that worked as an apprentice for a human healer in the city, had been dragged out of the alienage by two massive silver humans. Templars. Which meant that Neria had been an apostate—but Kallian hadn't cared about that. Neria had comforted her after Adaia's death, coming out of her usual seclusion to watch over Kallian in her sleep. She had woken her whenever her nightmares took too bad a turn, and had fed her warm teas that helped her step out of bed, and into the world again.

Not even Shianni, the closest of Kallian's cousins, had been able to approach the subject of Adaia without hesitation in her voice—as if the woman's name was a curse that would bring the guards crashing through the alienage. Only Neria hadn't seemed to care—either because she knew little about the rumours that pumped through the alienage's veins faster than thinned blood, or because she truly wasn't troubled by the thought of the humans taking retribution for the Highever mercenaries' deaths.

Sometime in the two years during which they grew closer together, Kallian realized that she felt something for Neria that she'd never experienced before. Shianni had looked at her oddly when she told her, then broke out into a teasing grin, murmuring something about Kallian being "that way" after all. The young rogue had found more and more excuses to be close to the apprentice healer, to touch her, to run her fingers through her hair; sometimes she'd get a twist in her stomach when she was with her, from wondering if she felt the same way.

And Kallian had done nothing when the templars came. Neria had frantically swept her eyes over the gathered crowd, and for a moment, locked with hers. When she realized that Kallian couldn't—no, _wouldn__'__t_—help her, she had gone limp in the templar's arms, and shut her eyes.

Kallian didn't know what she could have done. She couldn't have attacked the templars—even if she had been able to take them down by herself at that age, more humans would have come, and the entire alienage would have suffered. Soris, perhaps thinking that she'd actually do something, had put a wary hand on her shoulder. But Kallian hadn't needed that warning. She knew, with a sick certainty, that she had stood there and _chose _to do nothing that day.

x

One week back, Kallian and Soris had burst into the shem lord's bedroom, and met Shianni's wild, desperate eyes. The sight of her sprawled out on the floor, her dress torn and her blood dripping down her legs, buried itself deep into Kallian's heart. Vaughn had tightened his breeches while the other nobles rushed to grab their swords. And then he had offered her gold.

He called them animals. Creatures to be used. And then he had tried to bribe them with _blood coin_. The mere _thought _that she would accept—and Shianni's flicker of horror as Soris questioned whether they should take the deal and run—twisted at Kallian's insides, propelling her to crash into the lordling with her daggers drawn, spilling his guts out onto the stone.

The killing blow—a deep stab through his eye, then a twist—had thrilled her, but utterly failed to burn away the image of her brutalized cousin out of her memory. They'd been too late. Kallian would always remember that.

x

As she did now.

A part of Kallian wondered whether these memories hurt more than the torturer's tools because physical sensations seemed to matter little to her now. She was going to die. Probably presented in whatever state she'd be in when the Arl returned to Denerim, then killed at his word. What did it matter that she could no longer move all of her fingers, or breathe without her ribs carving pain into her chest, or feel horror at the damage between her thighs? What did the wounds on her body matter, when soon it wouldn't be her body anymore?

All that she had left was her guilt, and she clung to it like it was water that could soothe her sandpaper throat.

She wondered what the events of the past week would mean for her soul. She had killed so many men, and felt sorry for none of their deaths. Would that damn her in the Maker's eyes? Then again, what did the Maker care for elves, when He had turned away from His humans?

She had never been a proper Andrastrian. She wasn't even sure if she believed in the Maker. Maybe He was just a convient name to use in curses and think of when one's mind came to death and what came after—if anything did.

Maybe there was nothing. Just Ferelden, somewhere outside the city walls, and the rest of Thedas, somewhere beyond. Just the mud and the dirt and small clumps of flowers next to the vhenadahl in the spring. Just her elven brothers labouring in the docks, or the factories, or the fields under the hot sun. Her sisters washing floors in estates, serving in taverns, bending over in the red light alleys surrounding the Pearl. Just the ramshackle shacks that barely passed for houses that they couldn't even own themselves.

Just her, and the dungeons, and the torturer, and her death sentence. And she was starting to believe that she really wouldn't mind if that were the case. All she wanted now was for her punishment to end.

* * *

Duncan took cautious steps down the dark stairs to the cell, following the clink of keys and the flickering torch the guard held aloft to guide them. Though a part of his mind was lost in thought, the rest of him took in the details gathered by his senses, examining them for threats, things of interest, conditions to take note of, changes in the ground or in the air:

Rainwater leaking in through cracks in the ceiling, fractures in the stone betraying the dungeon's age; the dance of light and shadow in the far corners of cells both occupied and empty, revealing bodies with thin skin draped over bones with dirt, mud, and blood for a coat; the nervous ticks the guard gave on the way to their destination; the sudden tensing of his shoulders as they rounded a corner indicating that they'd arrived.

The guard dropped his keys with a loud clatter, and cursed. He fumbled as he tried to retrieve the keys, eyes flitting back between the Warden Commander behind him and the small grates of the door in front of him. He unlocked the door, offered Duncan the torch, and stepped out of the Warden's way.

x

Duncan had come to Denerim looking for the elf he had clashed with long ago in the streets of Highever. Adaia had been working with a mercenary band—one that held few scruples of conscience in order to make up for their small numbers. Duncan had been conversing with a noble whose eldest son had taken to archery; he had hoped to convince the noble to let his son join the Grey Wardens. As there had been no Blight back then, Duncan resisted the urge to use the Rite of Conscription. What with their strong associations to the Order in Orlais, the Grey Wardens did not need more political enemies.

Duncan had decided to try for diplomacy. Back then, it hadn't been one of his strengths.

As they turned into an alleyway, they were cut off by a half-dozen armed men; the two guards that served as the noble's bodyguards balked as they fumbled with their weapons. Duncan had been about to lead the noble to safety through an open path, before he realized that the mercenaries were pushing them in that direction.

Ignoring his warnings, the noble fled down the path when the melee began in earnest. Engaged with the mercenaries, Duncan could only watch as a furious shadow leapt from the roofs, tackled the noble to the ground, and slit his throat.

Duncan had swept over to engage the hooded figure, and was more than surprised to find himself met blow for blow. The rogue's twin daggers flickered faster than his shortsword and knife could, and though they had sparred for but a breath before the rogue disengaged, Duncan got more than enough of a hint as to Adaia's proficiency in battle.

She had flitted between him and the two guards, downing the plated men in two and three blows, respectively; she went for the crippling and disarming strikes that were immediately open to her, and switched targets as if killing strikes were a distraction from her goal. Meeting Duncan's blades for a few last, quick hits, she scrambled up the walls and disappeared amidst the rooftops.

The noble was dead, a red grin slashed across his neck; the two guards were down, one unconscious, and the other clutching his cut hamstrings, trying to stem the bleeding. Two of the mercenaries had been killed by Duncan's hand, but the rest had escaped thanks to the elf's flurries.

At first, shock and disbelief had clouded Duncan's mind, and it had taken the conscious bodyguard's pleas to snap him to attention and take control of the situation. But by then his mind had moved onto other, more inane, and definitely dangerous thoughts: of recruiting the deadly elf.

He encountered her and her company again a few weeks later, the mercenaries having taken a relatively more peaceable job with a rich merchant that wanted to show off his wealth more than defend himself from any attackers. The elf had tensed a little when their eyes had met, but to her credit had done nothing more than pointedly pat the daggers strapped to her sides.

Duncan had asked her then, and she had refused—which had been expected. He could have conscripted her, but again—he was loathe to resort to the Rite when there wasn't the urgency of a Blight. However, he _had _put the idea in her mind, and had little doubt that when she found herself in dire straits—as was a hazard of her profession—she would remember the offer from Ferelden's new Commander of the Grey.

He had kept an eye on her through the years through informants the Wardens employed. Adaia had risen quickly, then fallen hard, as Duncan slowly solidified the position of the Wardens in Ferelden. When her mercenaries finally turned on each other and the huntress became the hunted, he had expected her to make contact via the dead drop location he had given her. Instead, she had all but disappeared, emerging later in Denerim's alienage with little sign that she would ever work as a hired blade again.

Duncan had visited her there once, in what he thought would be his last effort to recruit her. By then, she had a family, and even a young daughter—though he suspected that Adaia was busy making sure that little Kallian took off her mother more so than her reserved but peaceable father.

Duncan had taken that meeting as her final rejection. Until signs emerged that the Fifth Blight was upon the land.

He had entered the alienage alone, as was often his wont when he went to recruit—or, more likely, _conscript_—someone with a less than noble reputation. Which, to his design, was often. He had given orders to the Wardens that had accompanied him to the city to make for the army camp at Ostagar as soon as they were finished retrieving some necessary supplies and equipment from the Denerim cache. The Circle mage Wynne, who had accompanied him from his unsuccessful visit to Kinloch Hold, remained somewhere in the marketplace, stocking up on herbs and special poultices she could not brew herself.

Duncan hadn't looked forward to separating Adaia from her family, but he knew it was necessary. The Wardens needed fighters like her, and—unlike the other recruits he had picked up along his recent travels—she already had extensive leadership experience. Even if that experience had eventually soured, she knew how to stage and execute an ambush, and had seemed confident taking the lead over much larger human men.

So he had steeled himself as he entered the alienage gates, expecting bitter recriminations, but hoping for a level of understanding—from the few times he had met her, he knew she was as wise as she was cunning.

What he hadn't expected was the haunted, mournful quiet of the alienage. Barred doors, suspicious eyes, windowpanes bolted shut. The few elves on the streets looked at him in terror before fleeing to their homes. Something dreadfully wrong had happened.

He had gone straight to the elder of the alienage, Valendrian, who had taken in his presence with what Duncan could best describe as a cautious surprise. His normally proud eyes were haggard, rimmed with defeat, and as he made sure that the Warden was comfortable in his small home he began to break the news with an ordered, whispered urgency.

Duncan hadn't expected Adaia to be dead.

It was from Valendrian that he had learned the reason for the unrest among the nobles and the tightened security at the Arl of Denerim's estate—which was now bordered by a complement of guards. Adaia's daughter had been kidnapped on her wedding day, along with others, by the Arl's infamous son. And the newlywed had proceeded to carve her way through the Arl's estate, killing Vaughn and two other nobles before escaping with all but one of her bridesmaids alive. It was for this reason that the alienage seemed prepared for a siege: while Kallian had given herself up to the Guard-Captain, it was likely that the nobles would press for a purge.

At any time, guards could flood the alienage, rounding up "undesirables", killing those who resisted. Blood would be spilt. Homes would be burnt. Families would be torn apart. Only when the alienage stood on its last limbs would the guards then leave.

Valendrian was understandably concerned about that eventuality, and the alienage seemed to have made preparations: people stuck to their homes, kept watch for humans like Duncan on the street, and those both loyal to the elder and capable kept watch to make sure none of the elves left the alienage for a considerable while. In Valendrian's words, the walls surrounding the slum were there "just as much to keep the humans _out _than the elves in."

Yet the elder took careful, deliberate time to detail the violence that had taken place in the Arl's estate. The Guard-Captain had described the scene as a "river of blood", and to Valendrian's eyes, Kallian's blood-soaked clothes had been proof enough of that description: the young elf had torn through a complement of the Arl's men with stolen daggers and her wedding dress.

And so Duncan realized the elder's unvoiced, but urgent request:

_Conscript Kallian into the Grey Wardens. And save her life._

The Guard-Captain had told the elder that Kallian would be put in the dungeons until the Arl returned to press a sentence. But Duncan knew that the word of the Arl would be just a formality, something that could easily be made retroactively after the torturer was finished with giving the elf a death worthy of the murderer of three noble sons. So he had thought it very likely that Kallian had been killed already.

He hadn't known what he'd felt when the Guard-Captain told him that the elf was "still alive". The tone of his words had muffled any sense of relief Duncan might have felt. He feared that, though Kallian might live, he had still arrived too late.

x

The clattering of chains pulled Duncan out of his thoughts.

The elf had woken, more likely from unconsciousness than from a particularly deep sleep. She pulled her arm in front of her eyes as she hissed at the light of the torch. Duncan waited for her eyes to adjust and her mind to wake. Instead of speaking, he examined her condition and wounds.

As he did so, he could feel his grip on the torch grow tighter.

The elf's skin was covered in dirt, blood, and bruises. The sackcloth that clung to her form was drenched in browning red. Her left ear was marked by teeth, and through her sweat-soaked hair he could see the skin around her eyes were swollen and black. A horizontal splatter of blood seeping through bandages on her neck implied a wicked scar, one that must have been carefully carved so that she would suffer the mark of one already dead during the last days of her life.

And if the marks along her limbs were any indication, her clothes hid terrible wounds.

He had almost resigned to accepting that Kallian was a lost cause before the immediate shock of her injuries faded enough for a more calculating evaluation. He studied her body, her muscles, her frame, looking past the wounds to Adaia's daughter and protege beneath. She hadn't yet atrophied too much during the week she'd been imprisoned. While even without her wounds she might look fragile, Duncan's trained eye saw the strength and dexterity she implied. Her hands, though a number of her fingers had been broken, were heavily calloused; Duncan thought back to Adaia and remembered that she fought with little armour and without the leather gloves typical to agile fighters.

And—surprising Duncan—the elf managed to struggle to her knees, sitting as straight as she could while supporting her body against the cell wall. She looked right into his eyes, breathed heavily, and growled.

"Are you here to kill me, human?"

Her voice was dry and cracked, and followed with a drop of blood passing through her lips, curling downward on her chin. Duncan took the small pouch of water he'd strapped to his belt for just this purpose:

"I am not your executioner, Kallian. Here, please. Drink."

An expression flicked through the elf's gaze, too quick to read, before thirst compelled her to snatch the pouch from his hands and drink greedily. Some of the water spilled down her cheeks and neck. Duncan had to ease the pouch away to her pained whine, lest she drink too much too quickly; she was already coughing, a horrible sound, her entire frame shaking.

After she had calmed, he lifted the pouch to her lips, slowly easing the rest of the water down her throat. Her working fingers grasped at his hands to get through to the pouch, but it was dry.

She rested for a moment, her head against the wall, before turning her eyes on him. Though Duncan could see little of her gaze he felt a tightness in his chest at how conflictingly calculating and feral her scrutiny seemed.

"I—don't understand," she said. "What are you here to do to me?"

Duncan considered her question. He wanted to conscript her—he could free her from the dungeons and take her to Wynne, a gifted spirit healer that could easily mend the elf's wounds and fix her bones. And while she would bear many, if not all of her scars for the rest of her life, she would be physically able to fight. The events at the Arl's estate and Valendrian's dry hints convinced Duncan that Adaia had indeed passed down her considerable training onto her daughter. Kallian would make a valuable recruit, and conscripting her meant saving her from a painful death at a torturer's hands.

But becoming a Warden wouldn't save her life. Duncan wondered if she, with her crippled constitution, could even survive the Joining. She could very well die from the ritual in as much pain as she would die here. Even if she survived, it would be a soldier's life—a Warden's life—that she would lead. She would likely never see her friends or family again. To some, Duncan knew, that was very much like dying.

And—inevitably—she would fall to the darkspawn, whether on a battlefield like Ostagar, or in the endless, cavernous Deep Roads.

Duncan didn't typically consider the Calling when evaluating a potential recruit. The Wardens needed soldiers, and what they faced was a terror that drowned out many considerations that might otherwise have been made—particularly the ones with ethical implications. Yet two decades as Warden Commander hadn't completely stamped out his empathy. And the Calling was something that had especially, if inadvisably, been on his mind during the last couple months.

There were other factors to consider, as well. Kallian might be physically capable after being healed, but Duncan had little insight as to the state of her mind. Valendrian hadn't known the full details of the rogue's massacre of the estate. The Guard-Captain had been livid when Duncan had told him he was considering invoking the Rite of Conscription; she was too dangerous, she had said, both politically and in the manner of a crazed mass murderess.

According to the Guard-Captain's reports, Kallian had—unarmed, and unarmored—poisoned three off-duty guards, bashed in the skull of the head cook, and stole a pair of daggers to cut through a dozen trained men. Then she had crashed into Vaughn's room, executing him and the two other nobles. The bodies in that room had been especially hard to identify.

And she had surrendered herself, which would have been a point for her rather than against her if the Guard-Captain hadn't been convinced that she was mad. Besides that, the man's point had been that Kallian had chosen to be punished. Duncan wasn't sure if he'd agreed on the Guard-Captain's use of the word, "choice".

The reports on the bodies found at the estate were a far cry from what Duncan remembered of Adaia's approach to battle. She had struckand run, minimizing her time spent with each opponent, running through them like a deadly gust of wind. It hadn't mattered to her whether her blows had been fatal, as long as she wasn't there when her opponent swung down. Kallian, in contrast, had made certain that none of the guards she came across were left alive.

Could she reserve her blows for _just_ the darkspawn? Or would she be more liability than asset in a fight?

Duncan considered for a moment, before clearing his throat.

"I want to ask you something."

Silence from the elf.

"The guards at the Arl's estate. Did you need to kill them all?"

Her answer came without hesitation: "Yes."

"And the nobles," Duncan continued. "Did you need—"

Her voice dripped venom. "_They deserved worse._"

He thought about that for a moment.

"If you had the chance. Would you do what you did again?"

She hesitated this time, wearing an expression that Duncan doubted he would have been able to catch, were the elf not in her present state.

"I—" she stumbled. "I would've… got to Shianni sooner."

He thought back to Valendrian's account of events. Kallian had come into the alienage clinging tightly to her quickly fading cousin, the other survivors in tow. They had to pry the girl out of her arms, and force the bloodied elf to hide when the guards came. The Guard-Captain's threat to tear apart the alienage led her to reveal herself, and claim sole responsibility—saving her other cousin, Soris, from being incriminated for smuggling her a pair of daggers.

Duncan put the pieces together in his mind, and made his decision.

"My name is Duncan. I am the Commander of Ferelden's Grey Wardens. I am here because the King's armies are gathering at Ostagar, to fight off an army of darkspawn. I believe that Ferelden is on the verge of facing a new Blight."

Comprehension seemed to dawn on the elf.

"The Wardens have the right to recruit anyone into their ranks. Including condemned prisoners." Duncan offered a hand. "So I ask you this. If I release you from this cell, are you willing to devote your life to fighting the darkspawn?"

Perhaps it was a cruel question. Yet again, "choice" was not a word that Duncan would have used to describe what was offered to her.

Still, he felt it right to ask.

"Kallian Tabris. Are you willing to become a Grey Warden?"


	2. The Road

**TW** for references to implied sexual assault in this chapter.

* * *

Chapter Two: **The Road**

* * *

Duncan sat by the fire, rubbed his temples, and sighed.

Across from him, the mage Wynne slept soundly in her bedroll—healing all of Kallian's wounds, and rejuvenating her enough to keep pace with their swift exit out of the city, had taken its toll. The elf herself had positioned her bedroll at the edge of the clearing where they had set up camp, and lay with her back to the fire. Duncan could only make out the outline of her shape, as buried as she was in the shadows lent by the long branches of the trees.

Even with her injuries healed and Wynne's magic coursing through her veins, the day's trip must have exhausted the young elf. He hoped that her stamina would recover during their journey to Ostagar, but resolved to keep a closer eye on her health. She still had the Joining to go through, and Duncan felt a particular desire to see the recruit survive.

He wasn't sure what he had expected, beyond what he suspected of her ability in combat; he thought he had seen a measure of her determination in their short meeting in her cell. But beyond what he thought had happened in the Arl's estate, he had little measure of her character.

Enough, perhaps, for the Wardens' purposes—particularly during the onset of a Blight. But Duncan hoped to know her better than that, especially if she were to become more than just another conscript to be thrown against the darkspawn.

His hopes, of course, would matter little to the elf. Duncan had had to pull more than a fair number of recruits from their homes and families during his long tenure as Warden Commander, particularly when circumstances meant that he had to invoke the Rite of Conscription. The Guard-Captain had insisted they leave the city immediately; wary of the inevitable fury of the nobles, Duncan had agreed, and taken Kallian to Wynne and then out of Denerim's walls without having had the time for the elf to go to the alienage to say goodbye. Kallian had been too weak to protest, but Duncan had seen how devastated she had been.

She had looked back at the alienage when they were a fair ways out on the road. The first time, he supposed, that she had seen any part of the city from outside its walls. She had faltered for a moment, before resuming her pace, keeping her eyes firmly ahead and avoiding either Duncan or Wynne's gaze.

Though, Duncan noted, she had not left everything from her past behind.

x

It had taken some time to free Kallian from the heavy chains that barely allowed her to walk. Duncan had not been unaffected by the sight of the raw, bloodied skin her manacles had left on her wrists and ankles. And the guards had needed to pry the heavy metal collar that had been clasped too tightly around her neck. Even the Guard-Captain, who had supervised the entire process, had audibly winced once the collar had been removed.

Duncan had wanted to leave the dungeons immediately after that; wishing to get Kallian to Wynne as quickly as possible before picking up extra supplies for the elf and leaving through one of the city's less trafficked gates. Kallian had stopped him before the stairs leaving the lower levels, and had bizarrely asked for a pair of boots she had been wearing when she had been taken by the guards.

A guard had opted to return a basket of her belongings by dumping the contents in front of her with narrowed eyes and a scowl. Ignoring the insult, she had gingerly knelt down to recover the boots from beneath the ruined dress and a motley of other belongings—most notably two crude sheaths that must have been emptied of their daggers. The elf might have been leaving with a Warden, but the guards probably hadn't needed to think twice before confiscating her weapons.

She faltered after the first few steps, and Duncan had to carry her the rest of the way. He did not look down at his charge as he did so; he could feel her wounded pride, along with her pain, practically radiating from her tense body.

x

Duncan had carried Kallian to one of the lesser known taverns in Denerim, where he and Wynne had agreed to meet. They had gone to one of the back rooms, where Wynne had started examining Kallian's condition before Duncan had even laid her down on the room's sole bed.

By then, the elf had slipped into unconsciousness, and Duncan helped the mage in removing the elf's clothes to reveal the full extent of her wounds. Neither of them gasped as the last piece of fabric fell away; Wynne was an experienced healer that had seen to many an injured man, and Duncan, of course, was the Warden Commander. There was little he hadn't seen.

That did not stop them from sharing a pause, before Wynne resumed her work.

"I'll need you to set her broken fingers before I heal them. I'll start on her ribs, then move on to treat the deeper cuts." He nodded, and she continued: "I'll also need some bandages, a poultice, and a small vial of lyrium draught to keep up my mana. These should be in my pack; please set them out by the bed."

After he had assisted her the best he could, he left them and went to sit near the entrance of the tavern. He picked a seat that gave him a full view of everything from the entrance to the corridor that led to the back rooms. While it might be foolish to send guards or even a complement mercenaries after a Warden and his charge, he didn't trust the nobles not to be foolish. And while he believed the Guard-Captain to be a man of his word—however forcibly it might have been extracted—he did not believe the guards stationed in the dungeons would resist overmuch to bribery.

The trickle of people in and out the tavern never grew as the afternoon wore on into the evening, and though Duncan's trained wariness examined each and every man and woman that crossed the building's threshhold, he could detect little from the patrons but fatigue from a morning or a day's worth of work at the nearby docks, or from the general drag of life for members of the city's underclass. Still, the Warden kept his back straight and his senses sharp. The flagon of ale that had been delivered to his table was left untouched.

x

Wynne had not needed the elf's name or her story to heal her, working into the evening to mend her body to a working state. And after it all, she looked more worried about the girl than exhausted from the drain of mana and effort; she idly brushed aside a damp lock of the elf's black hair from her sweaty forehead.

"Is this the child you came to Denerim for?" the mage asked.

"Yes and no," Duncan said after a pause. "Kallian is the daughter of an elf rogue I met in Highever, many years ago."

"Tell me more."

He hesitated, then proceeded to tell her about Adaia and what he knew of Kallian's story. He felt she deserved to know who was it that she had saved. Still, he kept some details to himself. He didn't tell her the full circumstances of Kallian's mission and capture, although he was sure she would connect some of the dots. News of Vaughn and the other nobles' deaths had surely hit most of the city by now, even if the city's guards had seen it fit not to release too many details, including the slaughter of the small unit tasked with securing the estate in the Arl's absence.

Duncan had heard a fair bit about Wynne from the First Enchanter, and he trusted Irving's evaluation of her character: wise, caring, maternal when the need arose. _Persistent, _as Irving had noted in a wry tone. Possessing a fair sense of justice balanced—or, as some might say, improved—by a sense of compassion. Wunne was cunning in her own right, and even sardonic when her temper flared, though she hid these parts of herself behind a kindly veil afforded to her by her role as sometimes matron.

So at first he didn't know whether it was care for the elf, compassion for her plight, or her sense of justice that spoke when she bitterly murdered a curse directed not at the admitted mass murderer, but at the humans that had terrorized her life.

Then he had seen the flash of her eyes, quickly hidden but for a moment vivid. That had told him all he needed to know.

x

Duncan had seen forced marches enabled by rejuvenating spells before, and so expected the jarring discord between the elf's light breaths and dead eyes. Wynne, herself, seemed familiar with the condition, though she had given the Warden a worried glance likely born out of concern for the elf she had taken on as her patient.

They didn't talk much—Kallian, in her state, would remember little from a briefing, and they needed to put some distance between her and the city. They had already tarried with his promise to the Guard-Captain to leave immediately, though Wynne had needed the time to fully restore Kallian to working order.

To her credit, Kallian managed to pierce through the heavy weight of the rejuvenation spell and her own fatigue to whisper a thanks to the mage. She did not spare Duncan a word, however, and—after affording a last look back to her home as her only goodbye—the elf kept her eyes fixed forward.

x

With her, Kallian had her tattered boots, her scarred body, and a glance at her home that few there would ever see. Not many elves made it out of their alienages, and those that did were often driven back penniless to the confines of its walls. The few that left the city were either headed to new homes with little hope of return, or fleeing humankind for the Dalish elves.

She also carried with her nightmares that Duncan did not envy.

He looked back at his charge. She lay perfectly still, in a tense sleep he himself was all too familiar with. He wondered if she had been able to dream in the nights before her wedding day; the Warden had a particular fondness for wishing others good dreams, and regretted that, were she to survive the Joining, the process would only add to her nightmares.

He sighed, and lay down on his bedroll. The wards Wynne set around the camp would be their watch for tonight. Not for the first time, he was glad of the Senior Enchanter's standing with the tower that had let her accompany him in this journey—still watched over, by Duncan's word to Knight-Commander Greagoir, but with respectful, not wary, eyes.

Before he let himself succumb to the day's fatigue, he tried to empty his mind of all thoughts—of Wynne, of Kallian, of Adaia, of the darkspawn horde closing in on Ostagar. Some of the Wardens felt this cleansing of the mind helped with their taint-induced dreams. Though Duncan no longer dreamed of a seductive but incoherent song. No longer did he see his brothers and sisters cut down in the Deep Roads by darkspawn blades, or felled by their barbed arrows. No longer did he see bodies mangled from the brutal grasp of giant ogres.

These nights, he fought against the weight of the Archdemon's gaze and its words, many of which he was rapidly beginning to understand.

* * *

The second day went little better than the first.

Kallian didn't even remember most of the first day, but she did remember the strange, almost cloying energy that had filled her body and did not fade before they set up camp. An energy that coursed through her blood, but felt greatly diminished upon reaching Kallian's exhausted mind. Most of her walking that day had been done thoughtlessly, and she wasn't sure if the gaps in her memory were effects of her fatigue or if she was recalling the moments during the journey her mind slipped into unconsciousness, while her body kept moving.

She shuddered at the recollection. She had no desire to repeat the experience.

Duncan had risen her the morning of the second day, with a firm grip holding her down by her arms and a loud voice that bellowed her name. For a few moments after she woke she could grasp the memory of blank, white faces, shadows cast by flames, stone walls that bled upon being touched, and a series of sharp cracks raising painful ghosts on her pack.

Then the moment had passed, and she was fully—however drearily—awake. Memories of her nightmare buried themselves deep, and Kallian made no effort to go after them.

x

Duncan had mentioned they were headed to Ostagar, but Kallian had little idea where that was—or where anything was, beyond Denerim. Duncan might have suspected this, for he pointed out landmarks to her that betrayed his experience traveling this particular road; whenever the road split, he made mention of which village, town, or city awaited at its end, as well as other details that mattered little to Kallian, such as which Arl or Teyrn was responsible for which holding.

Perhaps he caught her particular disinterest, and ceased mention of nobles and human politics well before the sun had spent a quarter of its course.

He made no mention of what Kallian was truly interested in: the countryside itself, its forests and hills, the mountains to the south barely visible in the distance, the movements of huge swarms of birds massing from the dense trees. Animal tracks that sometimes crossed the road in an obvious trot, the feet of small creatures mixed in with heavy hooves, likely belonging to the beasts of burden she sometimes saw passing in and out of Denerim, and on the docks, carrying wagons of shipments and supplies.

Her thoughts turned more than once to the Dalish elves, who were rumoured to set their camps deep in the Brecillian Forest, which Duncan had pointed out when it first came in sight. All elves in the alienage knew _of_ the Dalish, though what they did know amounted to little more than collections of rumours, mostly spread by humans and elves like Valendrian, who frowned upon fantasies of leaving the alienage to find the barbarian clans. Kallian remembered that Alarith, who ran the alienage's only shop, had once encountered the Dalish, but he had always kept tight-lipped about the experience.

She wondered if she could escape Duncan and the other human—the mage, Wynne—and make for the forest, to try and find the Dalish. Some said that the clans freely accepted elves that had fled from the humans, though others scoffed at the notion; it didn't help that no elf that had ever gone to find the Dalish had ever returned. Whether that meant they had been accepted, or had been shot by Dalish archers on sight, had been the focus of a number of childhood squabbles between Kallian and her cousins.

Shianni had frowned upon hearing of yet another city elf that had "gone off to find the Dalish". She had little love for living under the yolk of humans, but she did love the alienage as her home. She had many friends in the walled-in slum, and that had made the place richer for her than any human neighbourhood could have been. She seemed to take every attempt to leave the alienage personally, whether to brave renting a home in the docks, moving out permanently to travel to the homes of their betrothed, or escaping the city for the forests and the clans.

Soris had no such love for the alienage, but didn't even believe the Dalish were real; to him, the wild elves were a fantasy, concocted by elves in the city desperate enough to believe that there could be a life for them living in the trees. When Taeodor had lost his brothers to such a fantasy, he'd scowled at their foolishness and hardly been able to comfort his best friend, who'd been more worried about his brothers' safety on the road than their sanity in chasing such a dream.

Kallian had always believed that the Dalish, in some form, were real—there had to be elves that lived outside human settlements and cities, elves that lived in homes of their own choosing. Elves that lived without walls. She didn't know if they were bandits or barbarians or noble warriors or historians, but some part of her knew that they had to exist.

But as for running away to join them?

She remembered when she had been young and foolish enough to ask Adaia what she thought about the Dalish. Her eyes had grown dark, and she had dragged Kallian out of their home and toward the back gate of the alienage, the one that led to the closest route out of the city. She had pointed, then, and told her that if she wanted to leave the alienage, if she wished to make a home without her and Cyrion and her cousins, she had better leave now rather than later, and save them the effort of raising her further.

It had been a terribly dark night, and Kallian's eyes had been rimmed with tears; she hadn't been able to make out the expression Adaia wore, but she'd been sure it had been furious.

She had never mentioned the Dalish to Adaia again, and the woman hadn't mentioned the events of the night to her father in return.

Remembering this now, she turned her eyes away from the Brecillian Forest, and back to the road ahead. Duncan traveled ahead of her; Wynne was a few paces behind her, aside the pack mule that carried most of their supplies.

Even if the Dalish weren't a fantasy, thoughts of them were an indulgence that Kallian couldn't afford.

x

She was exhausted by the time they set up camp in the late evening, this time in a field some ways from the road. The mage busied herself drawing symbols in the dirt—warding the camp with magical protections, Duncan had said.

Kallian set out her bedroll at the edge of these enchantments, as she had the night before. Her ears had twitched furiously at the thought of sleeping next to the two humans, regardless of who they were. Her being far outside Denerim was unsettling enough without thinking of her future with the humans.

She felt all too vulnerable, out in the open like this. There was nowhere for her to disappear to, no walls for her to climb. She wondered if the wards would be enough to protect them from bandits or wild animals that might stray to the smells of a camp.

She had grown up to the sounds of marketplaces and factories, the calls of merchants hawking their wares and guards clanking in step in patrols about the streets. The clamour and bells of docking ships and running urchins, the retching of drunkards in the evening and at night, raucous cries from taverns and the moans of whores plying their trade with their bedroom windows ajar.

She knew nothing of the silence of the countryside, broken only by the faint hum of insects and the distant cries of wolves and other animals. Bird songs that faded with the falling of the sun. The sounds rang with an emptiness, a loneliness, in her ears. They were lovely enough in her own way. But they were no replacement to the strangely intimate cacophony of the city.

A part of her wondered if Adaia had felt something similar, when she'd left Highever to come to Denerim and marry Cyrion.

She shook these thoughts out of her head, and rose. Her body stank; she had been too exhausted to wash herself the night before, and though someone—likely the mage—had wiped off some of the grime and blood, she was awash with a new layer of sweat: she had recovered little of her stamina.

She tried not to think about a human's hands cleaning her with a washcloth. She really needed a bath.

Duncan had pointed out a small stream in the distance, some ways back on the road. She wondered if she should say something to the human before going off on her own, but decided against it. She had been in no mood to talk to either of them throughout their journey, and nothing so far had changed that.

When she reached the stream a short while later, she hesitated before undressing. She knew some of what to expect; while the mage had mended her most grievous wounds and what she could of the lesser cuts, she could still feel their echoes. The burn of the marks still present on her body had begun to plague her since the morning, whatever magic had lent her the energy to travel the first day having faded sometime during the night.

And she doubted that the mage had healed any of her scars. Kallian knew little about magic, but from what she'd seen of some of the humans that could afford a magical healer, she'd gathered there could be little done for markings that had already settled deep into the flesh.

For a moment, she considered stepping into the stream, clothes and all, so she wouldn't have to confront the sight of her body.

She let out a frustrated sound, deciding against it, and took a moment to steel herself with deep breaths. She undressed in a hurry, and ran into the frigid water in an attempt to distract herself with the cold.

She could blame the harsh sting of the rushing water on her wounds for the tears that came unbidden from her eyes. The pain was welcome. She could focus on it, as she'd done many times before, to keep her head straight when all it wanted to do was veer to the side and split open. Dropping to her knees, she curled in on herself, submerging herself to her shoulders and, with her head bent down, soaking her hair.

She tried desperately to calm herself, to slow down her breathing, to ease the knot in her chest that seemed to wind impossibly tight. A horrifying sound dug its way out of her throat, a hoarse sob that sounded alien to her ears.

And the memories of the recent past rushed through the barriers in her mind, overwhelming her senses.

She thought of Shianni, reckless and brave, shattering a bottle over Vaughn's head the first time he had come into the alienage looking for "guests" for his party. Her panic at learning that he was the Arl of Denerim's son. How she had drowned some of her worries with early drinking, even before the ceremony, with wine Kallian had smuggled to her while evading the now-impatient eyes of her father. How her beautiful cousin had handed her a glass, fully aware that she'd need all the liquid courage she could get in order for her to step onto the dais where the ceremony would be held.

Shianni had resisted, every inch, from when one of the lordlings dragged her to Vaughn in front of the entire alienage, to when Kallian had emerged from unconsciousness in a locked room with the other bridesmaids. The others had wanted to submit, to do what the lordlings wanted and go home, but Shianni would have none of it.

Vaughn had called for Shianni to be brought to him first.

She thought of Nola, and Nelaros, both of whom had been cut down by the same guard. Nola had been closer friends with Shianni than with Kallian, but she still remembered growing up with her and trying to get the timid elf to brave climbing the vhenadahal. She'd been one of the few friends Kallian had been able to make and keep in the alienage, and the nervous, devout Nola, different from Kallian in so many ways, hadn't hesitated when she'd asked her to be one of her bridesmaids.

She had hardly known Nelaros at all. Cyrion had told her he'd been a blacksmith in Highever, and Kallian had managed to convince herself that, however much she didn't want a husband, Nelaros might become a good friend. Others had called him handsome, but what had mattered to Kallian was that he had been kind. He had left his home to marry a woman he didn't know, yet he'd sworn to her to make her happy, and even Kallian had been flattered by that.

He had died for her, helping Soris enter the Arl's estate to smuggle the daggers he knew she kept hidden in a lockbox under her bed. He had been clasping the wedding ring he made for her in a bloodied fist. She had taken the ring, but didn't know where it was now.

She thought of Soris. He'd been in a curious state in the days leading up to her wedding; dreading his own impending nuptials, no doubt. Last Kallian had heard, Valendrian had already found a match, and the girl had been making preparations to move to Denerim. He had teased her relentlessly about Nelaros, more encouraged than discouraged by the fact that the man had no chance of winning her affections as a wife. As he likely expected, his laughter had helped with her nerves.

He had taken a crossbow off one of the guards Kallian had poisoned, though he barely had the chance to fire a bolt. He had scrapped with Kallian sometimes, but those had been fistfights and play, not actual combat. He had no idea how to aim, and threw aside the weapon in frustration, instead holding tightly onto a dropped shield and doing the best he could to cover his cousin as she charged down the hallways to take out the few crossbowmen in the estate.

He had been terrified when Vaughn threatened to burn down the alienage. Kallian had killed the lordling before Soris could question her actions.

Afterwards, he had asked her if they did the right thing.

She had spat at him then. "They left us no choice."

Soris had simply nodded.

She hadn't had time to look back at him as she was being taken away from the alienage by the guards. In a way, she had told the captain the truth: it was she who killed the nobles and his men, not Soris. She couldn't imagine a circumstance in which she would ever have pulled him along with her to suffer the cruelties of the humans. She hoped he would understand.

They likely thought her dead, now. Soris and Shianni and Cyrion, and even Valendrian, even though Duncan had told her it'd been the elder who told the Warden about her whereabouts. Would she ever see them again? Could she, if the time ever came?

She didn't know if she could face Shianni, after all that'd happened.

She shuddered, and submerged her head under the water. She rubbed at her face with her hands, burst out, and gasped a lungful of air.

She looked down at her body. Reached around her back and felt the memories that lashes and brands had left on her skin. Traced the ridges of the deeper cuts with her fingers. Felt the colour of her skin twist into blue and black with her palms.

And with every thought that came of the torturer's hands, his tools, his teeth, Kallian drew forth the terrified exhilaration she had felt carving her path through the Arl's estate. The secret thrill she had felt in her bones as Adaia's training and her own frenzy ignited into a flurry of blows. Merciless strikes, alternating between opponents, cutting into exposed faces, necks, chinks in their armours, weak spots in their leathers. Breaking bones when she couldn't cut through the plate, rolling to dodge a blow and snaking behind her victim, twisting her body around him and strangling him like a snake. Adaia had taught her to move swiftly between targets, and this she had done—but she had been sure to reach down to stab at the throats of the guards that'd fallen but survived.

She thought back to grinding a dagger through one of Vaughn's putrid eyes, the spray of his blood coating her face, soaking her open mouth, staining her teeth. She had made sure to mutilate all three of the lordlings' bodies. Every shem that had dared touch her cousin in that damned room.

She remembered the trembling, but visceral satisfaction that had sounded in Shianni's voice, when she told her she had slain the humans like dogs.

She stood, cold and wet in the night air, not quite cleansed but clean. She took comfort in the memories of butchering the men. Solace, in the knowledge that Shianni was alive. That Soris was unharmed. That he would look after his sister. That they would doubtless look after Cyrion.

Not much comfort, not much solace. But enough, for her to step back to where she had left her clothes in a pile by the side of the stream, dress herself, and return to the humans' camp.

* * *

Duncan had been concerned when Kallian stepped out of camp, but knew better than to go after her. She wasn't trying to escape: she left the pack of supplies Duncan had provided her behind by her bedroll, and had also left her boots, vanishing barefoot into the long shadows cast by the rapidly falling sun.

He had busied himself with preparing the evening meal: he was by no means a good cook, but many nights spent by stamped-out campfires under the stars meant he knew how to prepare rations well enough. He had just finished cooking some packaged meats by the fire when the elf stepped back into the firelight.

Wynne nearly dropped her piece of bread; Duncan didn't react at her sudden reappearance, all too familiar with those who felt more at home in the shadows than the light. He did, however, look up at her, and offered her her rations.

She had stared at the bowl like it was an unfamiliar, and possibly violent creature.

"I don't understand," she said.

"It's mutton," Duncan replied. "And bread. What is there to understand?"

She met his eyes, and tilted her head. "This… is for me?"

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Duncan realized that these were the first words the elf had spoken to him since they'd left the city.

"Yes. It is."

He could see her hesitate, before snatching the bowl and retreating to her far corner of camp. Trying not to stare, he focused on his own food while watching her from the edge of his vision. She devoured the meal like a starving child, and with a lurch he thought back to the meagre meal Cyrion and Adaia had shared with him when he last visited Denerim's alienage. The meal had been well prepared, but scarce in meats: a small bowl of what looked like chopped rabbit had taken pride of place at the table.

And in their rush from the city and Kallian's own fatigue the evening before, she had nothing to eat since the dungeons but for some strips of jerky he had put in her pack.

Duncan chided himself for his thoughtlessness. If his hopes weren't disappointed, Kallian was to be the newest sister in the Order. One of the only sisters, as there were few female Wardens in Ferelden. She deserved more consideration from him.

This time, he could clearly see Kallian make her way toward the fire, taking deliberate steps, as if to alert him of her presence. He turned to her as she cleared her throat, straightened her back, and pointedly looked _down_ at him where he sat.

"I won't be your servant," she blurted.

Duncan frowned. "I'm sorry?"

"I—I've never been a servant. Not to the humans back in Denerim, like some of my brothers and sisters. Not to the shopkeepers that offered good coin nor the noble houses that offered lodging." She paused, and glared. "You saved me, but I won't let you use me. I wont shine your Wardens' armour or clean your barracks or—or warm your beds—"

Duncan raised a hand. "Stop."

Kallian's face flushed, her mouth agape; catching Duncan's stern expression, she clenched her teeth and quickly ducked her head.

He considered his words carefully before he spoke.

"Kallian. I apologize. I'm afraid I haven't been very clear. Making you a servant was never my intention."

The elf didn't raise her head.

"I am the Warden Commander of Ferelden. I do not recruit servants; I recruit capable soldiers and fierce warriors—whether they be human, dwarf, or elf. I recruit those I believe would make excellent Grey Wardens."

She looked up. "I'm neither a soldier nor a warrior. I'm a murderer."

Duncan saw Wynne raise her head.

"Is that what you think?" he asked, eyes fixed on Kallian.

"It's what you humans think."

He considered her response.

"We're all killers, Kallian," he said.

"You kill darkspawn," she replied.

"And whom do you kill?"

Her eyes darkened, but she said nothing. Duncan answered for her.

"You kill monsters, and those who would serve monsters. You kill those whom you must kill, in order to accomplish your mission."

He stood, rising to his full height. Challenging her. "You are a capable fighter, one able to carry out her mission with no regrets other than your desire to have done so more efficiently. Or has that changed?"

The elf's ears twitched visibly, her face indignant.

"Of course not," she spat.

Duncan nodded, and sat back down.

"If any of my men wrongs you, fails to treat you with the respect due a Warden recruit and future sister, then they _will _be punished. Although," he shot her a look, the corner of his lips faintly taut in a hidden grin, "I very much doubt that you will need my intervention. You seem all too capable of handling such matters yourself."

Her face flushed again, but she nodded. Turning from him, she returned to her bedroll without a further word.

He sighed, and prodded at his remaining mutton, which had gone cold. Wynne made a noise, and a face, one that Duncan couldn't decipher by the firelight, then turned in her bedroll to rest.

Duncan put his plate away, and rubbed his head with the heels of his palms.

The three of them had some long days ahead.


End file.
